Get it?! Throwing Up… Over You… There’s certainly nothing in any way nauseating (bet they’ve never heard that one before)
about these East London girls, whose debut album evokes a DIY,
stripped punk sound that falls somewhere between early Hole and what should have been somewhere on the Heathers score.
Infused with infectious lyrics about summer, boys,
lying and generally not giving a fuck over frenzied guitars and anarchic drums, the trio stridently shriek, Throwing
shred and tear their way through eleven hyperactive post-grunge tales of teen angst without a care for relevance or acceptance.
In the golden electronic age of aural normativity and bedroom producer plagiarism it’s a refreshing change of tone, Throwing
one that holds two belligerent fingers up to conformation.
More than anything it’s a nostalgic throwback: a returning glimpse into embarrassing adolescent diaries, or a sighting of a cheating exboyfriend from school working in Primark.
Tipp-Ex your trainers, draw on your rucksack.
Most of our brief time together is just as jovial, often digressing into gushes of who we’re excited to see on this, the first night of the festival.
METZ are in demand to an extent that exceeds their one record, too, with a heap of other interviews planned before their show in a couple of hours.
Thankfully, what they are unable to convey aboard The Princess Hotel conveyor belt, they more than make up for as they take to the Pitchfork
They’re pitted against the massive draw of a sungoing-down Tame Impala set, which was by all accounts un-missable,
yet METZ make it a lot easier to sneak away from.
They still draw a healthy and appreciative crowd and play with the force and might of six members.
At one stage Slorach’s head bounces so relentlessly and fervently that I envisage it popping right off and rolling into the crowd,
still bouncing like a defunct bowling ball as his decapitated body plays furiously on with blood gushing like a fountain from his neck.
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